


The Asphodel Meadows

by howler32557038



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Amputation, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Head Injury, Historical Accuracy, Hospitalization, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Memory Loss, POV First Person, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, PoW, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Prisoner of War, Sad Ending, Soviet Union, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-12 22:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7124269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is taken from the Hell of war by his fall, and finds himself in Limbo. Seventy years later, he writes down everything he can remember of the months he spent as a POW with the Russians.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DirectorShellhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirectorShellhead/gifts).



> Hey, lovelies! Filling the next Tumblr prompt on my list. This one came from @directorshellhead, who you should DEFINITELY go follow on Tumblr, and also, check out her AO3. I've idolized her as an author since I made an AO3 account.

The Smithsonian gave Bucky Barnes a little corner in the gallery that housed the Captain America exhibit. They had pictures on the wall. A portrait of his family. An old ragged photograph from Goldie’s with all the boys lined up, Bucky in the second row, grinning ear-to-ear and proud as hell, with his hands on Steve Rogers’ sharp shoulders. Couple of pictures from the service, too. And a loose page from a sketchbook - Bucky, stretched out in the bed of a deuce and a half with two flat tires, boots kicked off and fast asleep.

Out on the gallery floor, they had a big plaque set up with his face on it. The engraved words wrapped his life up into a neat paragraph, beginning to end. When you stepped into his part of the exhibit, the motion sensors on the walls would trigger a voice - some middle-aged man would tell you all about James Buchanan Barnes -  _ the only Howling Commando to give his life in service to his country. _ If you stepped back out of the exhibit perimeter, he still wouldn’t shut up.

In a glass case, they had put four yellowed sheets of paper on display. A report, typed out on one of those old portable Remingtons, describing in sparse, sterile detail the raid that had apparently claimed Barnes’ life.

I stood there and I read the whole God-awful thing. And certain parts of it fit right in like missing puzzle pieces. But a man’s life is an awfully big puzzle to work, and back then, I was only putting together one little part - I was lucky to find pieces that connected, and even when they did, they didn’t make a picture just yet. Maybe I was putting together a part of the picture that had  _ always _ been blank - nothing but a white sky that fades to blue-black before the stars come out, and then turns white again. I think that must be the earliest real memory that I have after falling. Lying in that ravine, watching the sky.

I bet they’ve taken down their James Barnes exhibit by now - now that the truth of the matter has been played all over the news.

I keep expecting a memory of pain to creep back in - the feeling of hitting the ground, the agony of lying there in the snow, freezing to death. But it’s been a year and a half now since Insight, and for all I do remember, I don’t remember anything hurting right then.

I do remember falling. I dream about it - get the sensation, wake up hearing the sound of that guard rail snapping, and the creaking metal and the grind of rusted bolts popping free bleeds into Rogers’ voice as he calls out,  _ Bucky. _

But I also remember the actual descent down into the ravine. That was something. Time slowed down for me. I thought about a lot of things. Once something like that has become inevitable, once you’ve got nothing to hang on to and no chance in hell of making it out alive, your mind will just accept it because you don’t have another choice. It’s fine. Everybody’s got to go sometime. I screamed, at first, but then all the wind got knocked out of me and I couldn’t scream any more, and there was nothing but wind rushing past me. Everything was calm and quiet. I thought about my family back in the States and about Rogers and his outstretched hand being carried away on the tracks above me, and I thought,  _ probably don’t have long, so I’ll just tell them all good bye at once. Goodbye.  _

But after that, I  _ kept on _ falling. Which made me think,  _ well, maybe I’ve got more time after all _ . I finally hit the ground, right when I was starting to think I’d just fall forever. Shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did. And just like that, it was all over. And that was fine.

And that didn’t hurt a bit. Felt just like flopping back onto a down mattress. In my head, somewhere really deep in there, I knew I was either already dead or at least close.  _ If  _ I was still alive, my body was probably a wreck. Brains spattered on rocks I couldn’t feel, spine in pieces, maybe one half of me in one place and the other half somewhere else. It did me no good to think about how I must have looked though, because I couldn’t move - not even the tips of my fingers, so I couldn’t very well sit up and see the damage for myself. I imagined plenty of horrifying things, but I didn’t dwell on them long. I knew exactly what had happened, and there was just no way that I was alright. But the pain never really came.

So I stared up at the sky. All white, dim at the edges. The tips of mountains leaned in on either side, and I knew they couldn’t possibly be moving, but I watched them spin and swell and ebb anyway. If I focused on them, on the way my eyes made them move, it felt like being rocked in a hammock. It wasn’t so bad. I blinked, and the sky was a new color. The mountain peaks were dark. Blinked again, and the stars were out. Watched them crawl across the sky. Blinked. The sky was white again, and it had started to snow. I watched it come down and eventually I started to get the sense that rather than the snow falling toward me, I was being raised up toward the sky. Like it was God lifting me up to Heaven. Everything was gentle and I was nothing but a weightless spirit rising up like a wisp of cigarette smoke in the breeze. Dying had been so easy. I didn’t have a care in the world, even if I was a little sad - mostly, I was just relieved that it was all over with. For me, the war was over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter finds you well, guys!

The snow rose up in drifts around my body. Time had been slow as I fell, but now it was useless. Nothing but an unsure, quiet voice that talked to me in drunken whispers in my rare moments of lucidity. When I slept, I had these gorgeous, vivid dreams that filled me with false hope and this maddening _want_ for something offered to me that I couldn’t take. When I slept, I would start that climb through the air toward Heaven, and I’d be smiling ear-to-ear when I’d feel my spirit start to rise up, but then I’d realize I was going in circles, lost in the bare sky.

Consciousness would creep back in like an uninvited guest and I’d get this claustrophobic feeling that would build up behind my frozen eyelids until panic could rip them open, and sure enough, there were no Pearly Gates. Just that same ugly, cloud covered daylight, framed by the mountains that had swallowed me down into their belly.

During those periods of wakefulness that always seemed to last too long, I would hum out these long, low, animal wails into the empty ravine, calling out to God or Death or anyone to come collect my soul from the old cracked shell of my body. I was like a baby hollering for his mother. I think I knew it was futile - nothing but pointless noise. And I couldn’t say why I kept doing it, except that I felt so _sorry_ for myself and hearing my own voice, however pitiful it sounded, was a comfort. If I could just get enough air in my lungs to scream, maybe the echo would carry down an avalanche to bury me, and I’d have a great big grave all to myself.

The cycle - _sleep, float, wake, fall, wail, sleep -_ repeated over and over again before I felt much of anything. And then I woke up from one of those recurring visions of Rapture and found that I was _warm_ . Just like the sun was beating down on me. And in a way, that was good news. I didn’t know where I’d heard about it, but it occurred to me that feeling warm when you ought to be cold was a sure sign that the hypothermia was close to killing you. So I closed my eyes and pretended that the sunshine was real, and I let it put me to sleep, nice and easy. I didn’t want to be awake for the actual _dying_ part, anyway.

I had nearly drifted off when the deep buzz in my brain got louder. It took shape. Became voices. I couldn’t decide if they were speaking a language I didn’t know, or if I just didn’t know language anymore. I heard a shift in the pile of snow down by where I supposed my feet were, if I still had legs, and then the voices got raucous and sharp. Urgent. I peered out from the darkness, blinking once to clear away the melting snowflakes, and I saw two men. Soldiers. At first, they looked like they were afraid of me, and then they looked sad, and then their jaws went slack and dumb with surprise. They must have realized that I wasn’t a corpse just yet.

One of them used his rifle to prod at my chest, but I didn’t feel it connect. I thought, maybe he’s going to shoot me. I mustered all my will and took a breath so I could moan again, as loud as I could, wishing my mouth would move and tell him plain, _just put the barrel to my forehead, pal, I’m worn out._ But when he heard my voice, the dim bastard just shouldered his gun.

Together, the two of them shuffled up behind me and took a hold of my jacket collar and the strap of my side-holster. One of them said three words at even intervals - a count-off, before they hauled me out of my little snowy burial mound. And _Jesus_ , when they lifted me, I got my first taste of physical sensation from my wreck of a nervous system. I only felt two things, but they were two things too many, as far as I cared. The first was this eerie, ticklish ache that bloomed out from my gut and bled through me, bursting right between my eyes. Shock. The second was this curious _tearing_ somewhere to my left. I couldn’t place just what it was right then, but it startled me and made my eyes bulge open wider. Then, I watched, captivated, as most of my body pulled free from the snow...and part of me stayed behind. Just below my elbow, my arm was in two pieces. The men carried me further and further away, and my hand didn’t come with me. The thin line of red that still connected me to it got longer as they dragged me, and then it disappeared. Considering how I’d welcomed death just a moment ago, I sure was heartbroken to lose that hand.

Then again, the Reaper was probably still on his way - just late. I wondered if I’d be whole again in the afterlife.

Time became real again as they pulled me along, and it was brutal. My collar tugged at my throat and the pressure in my temples mounted with each passing moment, but the men didn’t stop their march, and there was no chance for me to take a full breath. The sight of my body skimming over the ground, the empty terrain rushing away behind me, was enough to bring about a third sensation - _nausea_. That quickly became unbearably intense, and I wailed again, high and keening, until my breath hitched up in my throat and my dry mouth flooded with warm, wet metal.

One soldier barked out some words to the other and we stopped. They twisted me around, holding up my body and letting my head hang limp from my shoulders. The blood poured out of my mouth like water from a rich man’s faucet. I’ll never forget how much came out - I thought it must be every drop I’d had in me, and there it all was, spilled into the snow. Not as beautiful as I would have imagined, either. Some of it was bright and lovely, but once that was out of me, it turned dark and grotesque - curdled and full of clots and God knows what else. Probably pieces of my insides. And all I could think was, _I really ought to be dead by now._

But the soldiers flipped me right back over and dragged me off again, refusing to show me even the smallest mercy they’d show their own lame horse.

It took a while, but God finally found a little pity in his heart for me, and He let me go back to sleep.

 

When I came around, the white sky was long gone. There were no mountains or stars, no snow falling down, no wind lifting me up. There were rafters above me and a fire nearby, voices babbling nonsense all around me, and too many smells - smoke, antiseptic, shit, food, blood, booze - and I could feel the cot beneath me and the blanket on top of me.

I could feel _everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come follow me on tumblr @howlerwrotethis, and follow the prompter @directorshellhead. Also, don't forget to check out her (genius) writing!


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First contact is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Guys, look at how fast I can update all my WIPs now that I have a computer! This is entirely thanks to directorshellhead, who also happens to be responsible for prompting this fic. Happy reading to you all, and don't forget to go check out her work and leave her tons of comments and kudos!
> 
> PS, my terrible Russian will probably undergo some edits at a later date. Until then, try not to let it detract from the rest of the story, I guess? :)

At first, there wasn’t much I could do but make noise. And I was scared, so that’s what I did. I bawled like a baby until someone finally came over to help me.

The man who finally came to my rescue didn’t seem to know what to do with me, and I was seeing double so bad that I didn’t even notice him at first. He spoke to me in Russian, which didn’t do either of us any good, but I knew he wanted my attention, at least. He patted my cheek a few times, trying to get me to focus. He spoke very slowly for me, hoping I’d understand. The light was making my temples ache and his voice made my ears ring, but I tried.

_ “Ey! Ey, soldat!” _

_ Soldat. Soldier. He wants me to listen. _

_ “Ty v bezopasnosti.” _

_ You.  _ That’s all I could figure.

_ “My russkiye.” _

He pointed to himself and then back toward the other men by the fire when he said it. I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them talking and laughing. We’re Russian, I finally put together.  _ That’s  _ what he was wasting his time telling me?  _ Well, no shit, you’re Russian,  _ I thought.

_ “My ne budem vam bol'no.” _

_ We. _ I didn’t know any more.

At that point, the pain started to hit me hard and I panicked. I think I’d already lost my mind anyway, so I didn’t have much will to feel ashamed when my only reply to him was endlessly slurring attempts at  _ please, help,  _ and  _ water _ until he understood one out of the three. Lucky for me, he got  _ water _ . 

He opened his own canteen to give me a drink, but when he tried to prop my head up, the little shift in my neck sent this incredible, electric nerve-pain right through my whole body, and I gave a shout that quieted the whole room down in an instant. My eyes had suddenly teared-up, but through my distorted vision I saw him look back at his fellow soldiers and gesture down at me questioningly.

Someone shouted something at him and came over, pointing down at my body, motioning first toward my neck and then toward the lower part of my back. It didn’t take much deductive reasoning to guess what he was telling him - my back was broken, because how the hell could it not be, after a fall like that? Of course it was broken, a lot of other stuff was probably broken, too. I’d probably never walk again. 

_ Come on, fellas. I’m a lame horse. Just take me outside and shoot me. _

I think I must have started to hyperventilate after that. I felt completely hysterical. They must not have thought much of me, but that didn’t really matter. My body was ruined and I was hurting like I’d never hurt before. I couldn’t help it and I felt like a fit was justified, anyway. Any of them would probably be feeling scared and sorry for themselves, too, if they were in such a bad way.

The two men graciously talked over my self-indulgent weeping and eventually came up with a plan. The new one, he went and found a tin lock-box of medical supplies and took out a roll of gauze, then cut off a few feet of it and wadded it up. They soaked it in water and then prised my jaw open to stuff it into my mouth. It goes without saying that this scared the daylights out of me at first, but then that cold water started to seep into my mouth, and oh, sweet Mary, it was heaven. I managed to suck a real drink out of it, however small, and it calmed me down some. Pitiful, I know, but you could hardly imagine just how thankful I was. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, wringing every drop out of it that I could, and they watched me, trying to decide if their plan had worked or if they were just drowning me. After a few minutes, I opened my mouth and looked at them, pleading like a little bird, and they got the idea. I closed my throat and breathed through my nose while they poured more water onto the gauze, flooding my mouth again.

It didn’t take me long to drift back off, nursing that wet bandage like a hungry infant. Days must have passed while I slept in fits. I’d wake up when they’d move me or when they’d give me more water, or when they’d laugh real loud from their seats around the fire. Sometimes, I’d come to in the middle of the night, heart pounding its way out of my chest like a bat in a chimney and rattling my shattered bones, because every time I slept too deeply I would dream that I was falling into a dark pit, and I’d hit the bottom and wake up feeling battered and winded without a breath of air in my lungs.

All I can say for those first few days after they found me is that they were  _ bad, _ but the Russians were awfully kind, and I was rarely left thirsty for long. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could think of to be thankful for. 

I stopped wishing they’d take me outside and put me out of my misery and instead I just began to crave more of that cold water on my tongue. I’d choke out a few miserable groans when the bandage went dry, and then be content and silent when it was wetted once again. So for a little while, that was my whole life. That was everything. Just making it from one drink to the next.

 

Then, one morning, I woke up and I could see a little more clearly. The room was quiet except for the wind that made the panes rattle and the sharp  _ drip-drop _ of melting snow outside. The sun was shining hard and white through the burlap sacks over the windows, needling into the bunker’s dust-speckled air between the rough gaps in the weave. I could see my breath puffing out in weak clouds over my face. The fire must have gotten low. Everything was quiet, so there must not have been anybody around to tend it, which was an awful shame because the gauze had gone dry, and so had my mouth.

And then someone shifted beside me - above my head, where I couldn’t see. Just the sound of a camp chair creaking, but it was enough to make me nervous. A hand came down and plucked the wad of bandages from my mouth and I whined piteously and thought,  _ no, don’t you dare take that from me.  _ I loved that thing, and I didn’t have much else to love in the world. As far as I was concerned, it was my last lifeline and my singular joy.

The guy leaned down to get a look at me and I finally saw his face - he was probably thirty, with lank blond hair and real stocky build, small eyes, and a narrow, pursed mouth. He yanked my eyes open one after another and shined a light into them. Wasn’t very friendly about any of it.

_ “Sprichst du Deutsch?” _ he asked like an accusation.

Now I was still knocked senseless from the fall, but I was still pretty sure I didn’t want some Kraut shining his flashlight in my eyes. “No, I don’t,” I said as clearly and firmly as I could, even though I obviously understood him. Oddly enough, I got the feeling I  _ did _ speak some German after all - not just that little bit, either - but I wasn’t sure how or why. Still, I didn’t like the sound of it.

“Ah, you are an American,” he said, smiling and sounding relieved. I was pretty relieved, too. Once I heard him speak some English, it was clear that  _ he _ wasn’t German, but another one of the Russians. “Unless you are just a very talented spy?”

Alarm bells went off in my head.  _ American. I  _ am _ American.  _ “Not a spy,” I croaked. “Please, can I have--”

“You will get your water back after we talk. I am a doctor, and we are on the same side. I am not going to hurt you. Can you speak with me?”

I took a deep breath and regretted it immediately as my spine and ribs screamed, but I was able to answer, “Yeah.”

“That’s good. You are very badly injured. It seems you fell in the mountains. Do you remember that?”

“Remember...laying on the ground.”

“Anything else?”

“Puking.”

The guy laughed. Hell, even if I was lame and dying, at least I still had a way with people. “Yes, you have done that a few times. May I ask you about your identification tags?” he said, tipping his head. He finally took away the light and left me seeing bright red spots everywhere. I heard them jingle in his hand.

“What about ‘em?”

He held them up and read from them. “Rogers, Steven Grant,” he recited. His accent made the V sound weird, but I got the jist of it. “That is very peculiar, soldier. I read the newspapers and I have seen pictures of Captain Rogers. He does not look much like you.”

“I’m not Steve Rogers,” I answered with a sense of terror building up in my gut.

“Do you know him, then? Did he perhaps give you these?”

“I think so,” I stammered back. Really, I didn’t know why I had them.

He finally asks the question that’s already begun tearing me up. “Then who are  _ you,  _ soldier?”

I took a few ragged breaths in and out and tried to laugh it off, but just ended up letting my face twist up into a sob that hurt my whole body.  _ “Fuck,”  _ I whimpered. “Fuck, I--I don’t know. _ I don’t know.” _

And that’s all I could say after that, until he finally gave up on me. He soaked the old bandage down again and finally let me have it back. I bit down onto it as hard as I could, and eventually cried myself back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of Queer History for you: homosexuality (even if it was only 'temporary') was pretty common among soldiers during WWII, even if it wasn't openly discussed. Sometimes, if a pair of lovers were particularly close, they'd trade dog tags and carry each others, a little like an exchange of rings.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are gone for good, I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell week continues as I go back to work against doctor's orders, start to drive again, and enjoy another round of EEGs, CTs, and contrast MRIs. So far, I think the only good thing to come out of this head injury is this fic. :)

My Russian doctor is probably long-dead by now, just like all the soldiers. None of them were really too fond of me, I’m sure - I was a burden to them, and I often didn’t have the good sense to keep quiet while they were trying to sleep - but it’s thanks to the pains that I’m alive today. When there wasn’t much they could do for me but give me water, keep me still, and help me to piss, that’s just what they all did. And when the doctor saw that I was losing it over the name I couldn’t remember, he didn’t shout at me or interrogate me. He just got this tired look in his eyes, like he’d seen men go mad too many times, and then gave me morphine to help me calm down.

I would learn later that I hadn’t had any morphine yet at all--the bunker hadn’t had a drop to give me. I would ask the doctor his name a few hours later, mumbling through that opiate haze, and learn that it was Vitaly Kuznetsov. For how much I’ve forgotten, I owe it to that uptight Red bastard to remember his name, after all he did for me. They’d called for him a good while before I fell and the soldiers discovered my body, but spring storms and the mountain terrain had delayed him. The two guys he’d been summoned to treat were already laid in fresh graves out behind the bunker by the time he arrived. Trench fever, I think.

After that dose of morphine took hold, Kuznetsov went to work on me. He talked to me the whole time, answered all my questions, however nonsensical and confused they were. My first, which I repeated like a broken record, was, “Who am I?”

“That may take a little time for you to remember,” he explained patiently, unloading his bag and pulling out all kinds of tools that looked to me more suited to an autopsy than an exam.

“You think I’ll die?” I asked next. He pulled all of the blankets off of me and set them aside. I knew I was stark naked - I could feel the cold better than I could feel anything else - but to be ashamed of the fact seemed awfully silly. That wasn’t my body, lying there - I couldn’t move it, couldn’t recognize its features, it didn’t look like me, and I didn’t know its name. And who would want it anyway? Hell, all it did was hurt. I didn’t know how long it’d been since I’d eaten, but I was starting to look thin. Except my belly was poking out, ugly and distended and mottled with bruises. Where my left forearm should have been, there was nothing at all. Just quick flashes of the limb I knew should be there, which appeared like a sun-mirage every time I blinked and then slipped away in an instant. There was only a cloth, brown with old blood, tied around my elbow or whatever mangled bone-splinters and shredded flesh remained of it. I had forgotten that it was gone. The memory of being dragged out of the snowdrift in the ravine returned sharply and I felt the pull and pop of skin and bone all over again - God, it hadn’t been hanging on by much, but the moment of separation was still horrifying, like pulling a loose tooth as a kid. Kuznetsov didn’t have to give his answer much consideration.

“Yes, you will probably die,” he replied frankly. “But you won’t be the first or the last in this war,” he laughs. “At the very least, I do not think you will be walking again. The men are leaving this base when they finish their operation - they will be going back east to regroup. But for you and a few of these men who are sick or injured, we will stop in Savognin. There is a hospital there where you will be safe, and they will contact someone to come and collect you. Hopefully, you will remember your name or perhaps your serial number as you heal.” As he spoke, he tapped and pressed all over my stomach. “The doctors will certainly have their work cut out for them, with you,” he said, taking out his stethoscope. “How far do you suppose you fell? Do you remember?”

“From...from the rails. On a train,” I answered. Just saying as much gave me a terrible, sinking feeling.

He pressed the stethoscope over a few places on my chest and sides, listening. “You fell that far, did you? And yet, here is your heartbeat, nice and strong. And all that morphine I gave you, yet you are still awake,” he chuckled, eyebrows raised. “All right, my American friend, perhaps you  _ are _ Steve Rogers. Or else the Americans have made more enhanced soldiers than they admit.”

I didn’t really know how to answer that. For all I could remember, maybe that’s just what I was. Some kind of lab-created super soldier. Something about the thought of labs and experiments touched a bad nerve, in fact, but it didn’t come with any concrete memories, so I just said, “I don’t know. Sorry.”

He removed the cloths from my arm after that. I can’t say what it looked like - I stared up at the ceiling and I didn’t let my eyes wander. I didn’t really care to see. There were still bandages, which I guess covered the worst of it, but I didn’t even want to risk catching a glimpse. “Where’d they all go?” I asked. “Soldiers.” My voice was starting to sound low and far away - I suppose that was the morphine at work.

“There is a road just south of here, which the Germans often will use to transport the prisoners. They take them by truck to a train station across the border. The men that are stationed here escaped one of the vehicles. Since their escape, they have been waylaying others. I am told there were only four Russians to start with, and that this was a German bunker three months ago. They ambushed it, took it over. Now they have liberated more soldiers and there are twenty-three of them in total. Mostly Russians, two Turks, and one American, for now,” he added with a grim laugh. “There was an Englishman, but he died just before I arrived. They took a radio from the last transport vehicle to make contact, so now they will go home. They set out this morning to make one final raid.”

“Good men--” I started to smile, but I choked. He’d started to cut with his bandage scissors and if the pressure wasn’t hell enough, my blood had dried and gotten stuck to the gauze and was pulling at the wound, stinging like the Devil. That morphine wasn’t really doing me much good at all.

I didn’t much feel like making conversation while he cleaned the injury. Wish he would have stuffed that wet bandage back in my mouth so I wouldn’t have had to listen to myself whine. Thankfully, that dose of morphine finally started to weigh a little more heavily on me and the pain dulled a bit - either that, or my body just got tired of feeling it and gave up.

“Why don’t you tell me what you  _ do _ remember?”

“Laying here,” I said thoughtfully, but unhelpfully.

“Well, at least you have some memory in the short term,” he scoffed, remaining bent over his work.

“They, uh...dragged me here...laying in the snow. For a few days...a long time. Falling.”

“You say you fell from the rails, yes? That you fell from a train?”

“Mm.”

“Do you remember why you were on the train? Or where it was going?”

 

_ had him on the ----- _

_ I know you did _

 

“No,” I replied, trying harder to recall the time leading up to the accident. “I think...people were shooting at me. Someone tried to save me from falling.”

“Did he fall as well, do you think?” Kuznetsov asked as he wrapped a fresh bandage around my arm, this one tighter and neater than what the soldiers had managed.

“No…”

 

_ \----- hang on grab my hand _

 

“Just couldn’t reach.”

Kuznetsov sighed, touching lightly, squeezing up the length of my arm to feel for more breaks. “Well, I am afraid that I have very bad news for you, young man,” he said, pulling me back to the present. I tried to focus my eyes on him and listen, though I didn’t really want to hear any more bad news. “This, I think,” he nodded downward and patted my shoulder, “it will not grow back.”

He had a nice little laugh at his joke. I tried to smile, but my ears were still filled with the echoes of steel rail tires hammering the tracks. I could almost picture the man who’d reached out to me; I could almost hear what he called out. I could see his lips moving and I knew they were making the shape of a name that belonged to me, but the guillotine-sharp  _ clack clack clack  _ of the train wheels drowned it out. “Yeah,” I said, my voice fainter than ever, drifting out of some poppy-field dream. “Can’t get it back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, and for bearing with me during the long gaps in updates. All my kudos to directorshellhead. :)

**Author's Note:**

> See you guys soon!


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